Draco, Like a Mac and Cheese Virgin
by eevilalice
Summary: In which Hermione deduces the real reason why Draco Malfoy is a heartless prat.


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its characters; they belong to JKR et al. No profit is being made from the writing of this story.

"You mean you've _never_ had macaroni and cheese before?"

"Granger, I'm a Malfoy. I subsist on ambrosia and nectar. Oh and galleons, liquefied."

Hermione, sitting cross-legged in the Head Common Room's lone comfy chair, a bowl of steaming, golden, gooey, homemade—okay, house-elf-made—macaroni and cheese in her lap, shook her head sadly, pityingly, dislodging a loose strand of brown hair which she just managed to snag with a finger before it landed in said dish of cheesy goodness.

"All that money, and not one forkful of macaroni and cheese your whole life. I see more and more how it is you've turned out to be such a heartless prat."

"First of all, Granger, I do believe that's a spoon you've got. Or didn't your ignorant Muggle parents teach you such fine distinctions?" Malfoy shrugged off his bag and dropped it with a thud onto the table separating the comfy chair from the straight-backed monstrosity he was now easing himself into. "Secondly, I wasn't aware ingesting this 'macaroni and cheese' _delicacy_"—the word laced with disdain—"was a prerequisite for possessing a heart. Thanks for the warning, though. Wouldn't want to grow one of those things all of a sudden." He wriggled his shoulders in an exaggeration of disgust.

Hermione smiled wryly and dug into the only "delicacy" that had the power to make her feel better, being sure to get a spoonful with plenty of bread crumb topping.

She'd caught Ron and Lavender snogging each other senseless on patrol tonight, and it hurt doubly so for the fact that she _knew_ that _they_ knew she was assigned to that area of the castle at that time. She was sure they weren't trying to hurt her feelings on purpose; Ron was too ignorant of Hermione's interest, and Lavender…well, maybe Lavender did know. It was likely they just got carried away. Her only consolation—besides the mac and cheese—was that Malfoy hadn't been with her to see it and taunt her about it later. _Although,_ Hermione reasoned, _there would have been some gratifying insults directed Ron's way._

Another heaping spoonful. _Comfort food, right?_

She looked up at Malfoy, who had pulled his bag over and was sorting through its contents, the light from the fire glinting off his insanely blond hair. At some point he'd removed his robe, slung it over the chair back, and pushed up the sleeves of his jumper and shirt. Hermione glanced at his forearm, the skin pale and marked only by the blue of his veins.

Truthfully, she knew he wasn't heartless. Prat, yes. Heartless, no. Sixth year, he and his mother had made a deal with the Order, and Lucius—as much as she still despised him—had offered some crucial information in exchange for a reduced sentence. Now here they both were, Head Boy and Head Girl, supposedly working side by side in some new effort at school unity in the face of You Know Who and All That Was Evil.

So far, "side by side" consisted of them actually being in the same room together without hexes cast, punches thrown by Hermione, or the M-word uttered by Malfoy. Real progress.

"You're serious about that stuff, aren't you?"

Hermione jumped in her seat, spoon clanking against the side of the bowl. In staring at and thinking about Malfoy, she'd somehow forgotten he was, you know, there. And could talk.

"Half the bowl gone in five minutes. Perhaps there's a contest you could win." He smirked. Prat.

She smiled graciously. "See what you're missing?"

Potions book clasped between two elegant hands, he leaned forward and sniffed. "It doesn't even smell appetizing."

"But you are curious."

He leaned back, cocked his head to the side. "I am curious. The house-elves made that for you? Special? Didn't you used to"—he waved a hand vaguely—"care about them or something? Have some club of one you made up?"

Hermione shoved another spoonful of pasta into her mouth. S.P.E.W. had been a tremendous failure, and she wasn't accustomed to failure. She _did_ still care about the rights of elves. But Dobby—_free_ Dobby—had asked her favorite food once and insisted she request it whenever she wanted. She hardly abused the privilege; this was only the first time in the three months since the school year had started.

Malfoy looked at her expectantly, and she swallowed, ready to default to defensiveness. Then, a knock and Ron's voice. Apparently, he and Lavender had separated to breathe and do other things.

"Hermione! We've come to rescue you from the evil clutches of The Ferret." A pause. Harry's voice mumbling something. "Also, could you help Harry and me with Charms?"

Malfoy snorted. "Good luck with that one, Granger."

Hermione had a strong, inexplicable impulse to throw her arms around Malfoy and plant one right on those surly lips of his.

She resisted.

Instead, she sighed, got up, placed what was left of her mac and cheese on the table, grabbed her robe and Charms book and approached the door. Pulling it open, she offered Ron and Harry a weak smile.

Before the door closed behind her, she heard the jangle of spoon against ceramic.


End file.
